it's not always fun being a freak
by crimson and bare
Summary: He's a werewolf, she's a walking party trick. - Old memories blossom into a discussion about freaks, love and freaks in love. Tonks/Remus. Oneshot. Quite fluffy.


_A/N: Yes. Tis a repost. I hate it when this happens. I go and I click on my own story and it's like, "This story is not found." I wait and do it again and it's like, "This story is not found." So, since it was only posted a bit ago, I'm just posting it again to see if it works. Much love._

The summer breeze nearly penetrates the mist pressed against the windows.

Nymphadora Tonks gazes at the wall blankly, her eyes having moved up from her magazine. It's dull anyway, desperately clinging onto the fact that people still care about relationships and robes when there's darkness and Death Eaters everywhere. Her lemon tea is sitting, alone and cold on the side-table, amongst the many rings from her past drinks. She never cared much for cleanliness, much to Remus's dismay. Something he and her mother can finally bond over.

He walks in just as she thinks of him, looking glorious shabby. Her lips twitch just at seeing him. Ever since they married he's teased her for grinning when she sees him with her. They may be persecuted, maybe near death as each day goes on—but she loves him. Yes, she loves him.

"Hello there," he says softly, sitting down in the armchair to her left. "Are you alive?"

"For today at least," she says, smiling while his fades. "Oh, don't be like that. Here."

She gets up and walks over to the radio, twisting the dial. There's only one decent station still running anymore—everything seems closed down these days, even the Wizarding Waves. Some old song by an ancient band in the seventies played. Her parents probably danced to it at some point.

"I haven't heard this since I was in school," he remarks, looking startled.

She attempts to dance to it, but the most serious man she knows starts laughing. Swaying like she's stoned, she slips over to him and sits on the coffee table in front of him. There's nothing better in this world than being close to him. She knew from the moment she saw him.

"You can't dance, Dora," he says quietly, growing nearer to her. Perhaps she's only hallucinating, but it feels like he's a heartbeat away.

"I've realized." There's a silence that seems to last forever. But the thing is, Tonks has always wanted to be with someone who she could be silent with. She's always been talkative and outspoken, fearing that someone would see through her. But Remus and her share this beautiful, deafening silence.

"Do you ever worry about me?" he abruptly asks, over the old, slow, melodic song.

"Why?" She thinks she knows.

"This song just reminds me of my youth. And how I could have so easily hurt everyone I loved," he says, his eyes more distant than hers only moments ago.

"Would you like me to turn it off?" she suggests but he shakes his head. Tonks isn't sure what to make of it. "You know what? I'd rather turn furry every full moon than live my whole life not knowing what I really look like. It's a perfect combination of childhood insecurity and being a walking party trick."

"You're not a party trick. I ruin parties," he says and she shrugs.

"Most people think of it that way. One moment you have all the friends in the world, and then they get tired of it, or jealous. _Oh, Tonks, if only I could look like you_. The thing is, it wasn't me they thought was pretty. If I was some dazzling blonde, or inherited my mother's dark, sexy features, I would be pleased with compliments. But I didn't even know who I was. It always changed. Even baby pictures don't help—one day I was blonde, the next rainbow, the next ink-black. Was I pretty? Or was I hideous?" She's never shared this with anyone.

Remus pauses for a moment, as if thinking about it. He studies her for a second and she feels transparent and ugly. Weak. Tonks hates feeling weak.

"It's not always fun being a freak," she says softly, not loud and proud of herself like usual. Because the deeper you get, the quieter she gets.

"I don't think you're a freak," he says and she sighs.

"But I _am_. I'm not afraid of your lycanthropy, of course. But many people would be terrified. You don't think I'm a freak, but once you hear it screamed at you from a couple crazies, you start believing it. Can you tell me that you never once considered yourself what those you hated called you?" Tonks continues, feeling angry out of nowhere. Defensive.

"It's love, isn't it?" he says, rather strangely. She doesn't know what's he's talking about. "Love makes it not matter. And I think this is quite beneficial to your romantic escapades, Dora. You never have to worry that a man is into you for your looks. If he's a man who falls for the blonde or the bubblegum, and the next morning he sees you brunette or, god forbid, some odd color of eyes, he'll leave you."

"Then I snagged a good one," she says, kissing him on the lips. "You wouldn't care if I looked absolutely atrocious, would you?"

"I'd be quite a hypocrite."

"I think you're sexy."

"_Dora_, really?"

"Uh-huh."

She kisses him again, sinking into his arms. It feels as if she's engulfed in him, spirited away from her insecurities. He thinks she's beautiful, deeply and truly. And she thinks he's the most amazing person to ever live. It's impossible to break. They hold onto each other, the summer breeze finally breaking through the mist. Or perhaps she's imagining it.

Because love seems to conquer appearance.

He fell for bubblegum pink and stayed for the tired grey.

He's the summer breeze, breaking through the mist of dementors.


End file.
